


if you ever wanna be in love

by Somedeepmystery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (but i did try), F/M, Family Dynamics, Friendship, Love, OC family members - Freeform, Pining, Romance, St. Patrick's Day, Team as Family, illya tracks with love, is my bae, of differing varieties, research is still not my kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 14:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14107443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: "Why had she done it? Why had she given in to that bold impulse? Now she would be paying her dues and she had no idea what they would be."(eta: original rating was an error - content has not changed.)





	if you ever wanna be in love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diadema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY to diadema, the best beta, awesome friend, excellent 'pen' pal, awesome friend... did I say that already? Wonderful person and Gift to the fandom. Thank you for your friendship and everything else. I am, every day, exceedingly glad you are in my life. This is nowhere near worthy of you, but I desperately wanted you to have it TODAY.
> 
> Awhile back, when I said I was having some thinky thoughts, this is what I was thinking of. :) I'm sorry for waiting until the midnight hour to write it and therefore not have it as perfect as it should be. I hope you still enjoy it. 
> 
> To everyone else: Thanks for stopping by, I hope you enjoy it too. :p

Gaby had felt a pang of foreboding the moment Solo had uttered the words. She didn’t know how or why at the time, but she’d had that awful feeling in the pit of her stomach that those words would come back to haunt him.

It wasn’t that she wanted the CIA to have the information they were withholding. They had agreed, as a team, that this sort of thing was best kept within UNCLE’s purview

“I think, perhaps, you should tread lightly here, Solo,” she’d said as they watched Sanders walk away.

Things between Solo’s CIA handler and UNCLE had been tense for the last several months. Not with the US or even the _CIA_ specifically, only Sanders. She’d taken notice sometime back when she’d been with Solo during an information exchange she’d been present for, and Waverly had confirmed that there had been friction in that area. Solo was too caught up in his own ‘friction’ with the man to really take notice.

He’d given her that patented grin of his, all shine and no sentimentality. “What Sanders doesn’t know, won’t hurt me,” he’d said, and that sense of foreboding had done a nose dive.

They were in Solo’s apartment when that foreboding had borne its fruit.

She’d come over, as was often the case after a long day of paperwork, to dine with Solo. He was in the kitchen making some sort of stew. The scent was mouthwatering and it filled the living space, making her stomach rumble and her mouth water.

They were waiting for Illya.

That odd feeling was still there though, the one that told her something was coming. She contributed it to Illya’s return. He’d been gone for a month, called back to Moscow for some work at home, and she was both leery and giddy to lay her eyes on him again. She looked at the waiting door and shot back the rest of her vodka.

“I have been meaning to ask you,” Solo called from the kitchen. “How is the Buick coming?”

It was a wash of relief. Rescued from her own thoughts. She walked to the bar, poured herself another drink.

“It’s going well,” she said of the car in her own little corner of UNCLE’s garages. She’d found the American automobile in a collapsed building three missions ago and had it brought back. She’d never gotten an up close and personal examination of an American car before and the 1955 Buick Roadmaster provided the perfect opportunity. “Aside from the one piston.”

Solo stepped out into the main area, a large bowl in each hand, steam rising from them and curling toward the ceiling. The scent of food made Gaby’s stomach grumble loudly and the American grinned. “Hungry?”

Gaby lifted her chin. “We’ve been working all day,” she said. We didn’t even stop for lunch.”

“Don’t worry, Gabs, I will have that belly full in no time.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll keep the rest warm for Peril.”

And just like that, her mind was back on the tall Russian and his imminent return. The pulse of anxiety took the edge off her hungry, but she sat down at the table as Solo placed down her bowl and lifted a spoon.

“It smells wonderful,” she said, looking to distract herself again. “What is it?”

He had taken his own seat and looked up at her words. “It’s stew, Gaby.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know it’s stew, but since when is anything with you simple.”

He smirked. “Alright, so it’s a lamb stew with Guinness and barley.”

Gaby made a mildly impressed face and lifted a chunk of meat to her mouth. It was tender and flavorful.

“Don’t tell me,” she said when she had finished with her first bite. “Your great, great grandmother’s recipe.” It was Solo’s wont to brag about where he had learned his dishes, each one either some elaborate tale involving a queen or a prince or a long line of ancestors.

Solo had his own bite of stew, so it was a moment before he answered. There was something there in the way he looked at his bowl for a moment before looking back up at her, his mask firmly in place. “My dad’s actually.”

“Really? Well, your father was an excellent cook.”

“Mmm,” he responded and lifted another bite to his lips.

A knock at the door kept her from investigating that response further. She set down her spoon as Solo wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood to his feet.

“That must be our Red Peril now,” he said and there was a knowing look in his eye that put her back up. She took up her spoon and started eating again as if nothing at all important was happening. When Solo’s back was to her, she closed her eyes and took a steadying breath.

Why had she done it? Why had she given in to that bold impulse? Now she would be paying her dues and she had no idea what they would be.

She focused her stew as Solo opened the door, took a bite as the rumble of low voices reached her ears.

“Have a seat, Peril,” Solo was saying as he led Illya into the room. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.” His voice hummed through her and she had to keep herself from looking at him longingly.

Solo detoured to the kitchen and Illya came near. She felt his presence there, _looming_ … except not exactly that.

“Gaby,” he said, and she finally looked up.

“Illya,” she returned. There was a lump in her throat despite her best efforts and she swallowed it down. “Welcome back.”

A little frown furrowed his brow and she braced herself for whatever he would say, whatever would come next but then Solo was there with a heaping bowl of stew.

“Here you go, still fresh.” Solo said as he set the bowl at the third place and then took his own seat again.

“Thank you,” Illya said, then moved into the chair between them. She watched from the corner of her eye, saw the stiffness of his movements, the slow, deliberate way he pulled the bowl close.

He was in pain.

The urge to make him stand and show her his injury almost overwhelmed her, instead she shoveled another spoonful of stew into her mouth, found herself chewing a bit too much.

Illya poked at the bowl's contents for a moment and Solo rolled his eyes. “It’s _stew_ , Peril, it’s not going to bite you. Honestly, you two. When have I ever fed you anything less than savory?”

“Duck fetus,” Illya said without hesitation.

“Feet truffles,” Gaby said a half second later and some of the tension between them eased. Illya glanced at her, that reserved smile of his lifting the corner of his lips, and she returned it.

“You two are just lacking in any refined taste,” Solo huffed.

“The stew is good,” Gaby said and at her word, Illya lifted a spoonful to his mouth.

He made a little sound of approval and then practically fell on his food like a starving man. She could tell he was trying to be reserved about it, but she and Solo shared a look before tucking into their own.

When their bellies were full they carried their dishes to the kitchen and, as was their tradition, the two guests washed and dried while the host put them away. Gaby tried to relax standing next to Illya at the sink but every time his arm brushed hers she felt a jolt. She didn’t know what she was expecting him to do. It wasn’t like he was going to bite her…

Or _kiss_ her. At least not with Solo there.

His fingers brushed hers as he took a plate from her and she bit back a traitorous gasp. His eyes flicked to hers for a moment then over to Solo before focusing on drying the plate.

When they had finished with clean up, Gaby followed Solo and Illya into the living room. She watched as Illya eased himself onto the couch and Solo handed him a glass of scotch, which he accepted readily. She let her gaze run over him as he leaned back against the cushions, long legs jutting out into the room, large hand wrapped around his glass. She wondered for a moment if she would ever not want him, or if this was the new order of the universe. The moon went around the earth, the earth went around the sun and Gaby Teller wanted Illya Kuryakin.

She realized she was staring and looked away only to catch Solo’s knowing eye as he came toward her with her own glass. She held his gaze, steady with denial as she took the tumbler from his hand.

Solo opened his mouth to say something, something that would likely cause tension and embarrassment, but the phone interrupted him with its shrill bell. He turned that direction with a small frown and then moved to answer it, crossing the room with long strides.

Gaby watched him go, then took a swallow of her drink, holding it in her mouth a moment to savor the taste. A moment later she sensed Illya’s presence behind her. She turned to find him closer than she had expected and tipped her head back to look up at him.

His eyes were so blue in the soft light and they glanced over her a moment before settling on hers. He looked uncertain but determined and she felt a thrill of hope shudder through her. In the background Solo could be heard answering the phone but she was only marginally aware of him as Illya lifted a hand to place on her arm, his thumb brushed softly over her skin, his fingers cool.

“Gaby,” he began, his voice deep, low and soft. “Whe –”

“What?” Solo’s voice cut into the moment, a sharp demand laced with a genuine concern that had both of them turning in his direction. Illya’s hand fell from her arm and she felt the loss of his touch as if he had taken some part of her with him.

“When did this happen?” Solo was asking, moving further away from them and speaking lower. “Well, are you hurt?”

Gaby looked up at Illya who frowned at their partner and then glanced back down at her.

“I’m coming over,” he said quietly. There was another pause as whoever was on the line spoke in return. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m coming,” he answered, voice lowering even further.

Gaby raised her eyebrows and looked back at Illya who gave a little shake of his head. Gaby nodded toward the sofa and they sat together, both turning inward to look as if they were involved in their own conversation.

“So, how did things go?” she asked as if by rote, and though this wasn’t a real conversation, just a distraction, she found that she really did want to know.

“It went as expected,” Illya said, taking a casual sip of his drink. “Mostly training, tests.”

“Making sure their agent is still up to par?”

“Something like that.”

Solo hung up the phone and crossed the room trying to affect a calm appearance. “I’m sorry you two, something came up and I need to leave.”

“What is it?” Gaby asked. “I thought we were going to go over Barcelona?” She watched him carefully as he smiled and tried to look as devil may care as possible.

“That can wait, I think,” he said. “I’ve got a… friend in need of some attention.” He pulled out one of his roguish smiles but there was something off about it.

“One of your many women, I assume,” Illya tossed in, he was also watching carefully, taking another swallow of his scotch.

“You know how it is,” Solo said, smiling again. “You two can stay here as long as you want.” He looked at Gaby with a smirk. “I’m sure you won’t mind the alone time. Just don't make a mess and lock up when you leave.”

He snatched his coat off the coat rack and was gone. Gaby made a little scoffing sound as she watched him go. Leave it to Solo to toss out innuendos to try and distract them. She and Illya shared a look.

“We are going to follow him, yes?” Illya asked.

“Damn right we’re going to follow him!” Gaby pushed to her feet and went to the window. “He turned right, we should hurry before he gets to the end of the block.”

“No need,” Illya said. “I’ve got a tracker on him.”

Gaby whirled around. “What, why?”

Illya shrugged. “In case I need to know where he is.”

Gaby exhaled in exasperation then paused, her eyes narrowing at him. “Wait… do you have a tracker on me?”

He went still.

“Illya?”

He looked her over for a moment then nodded. “Yes.”

“What?”

“I want… I do not want…” he made a little growling sound. “You two are very good at getting into trouble.”

“Where is it? Never mind, no time. We are going to come back to this conversation _later_ ,” Gaby said moving in to poke him in the chest. He winced and she stepped back. “And don’t think you’re getting out of telling me where and how badly you are injured either!”

She snatched her jacket off the coat rack and waited for him to join her at the door.

❧

Solo’s speed of movement indicated that he had grabbed a taxi and Gaby and Illya followed suit, hopping into the back of a cab together, Illya’s focus on the gadget in his hand and Gaby intensely aware of the place his thigh brushed against hers, the fabric of his trousers somewhat rough against her bare skin. She forced herself to look out the window instead of at him and played with the bangles on her wrist to keep from touching him.

They rode in silence, except for Illya’s occasional, curt instructions to the driver, and soon arrived at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen, the facade of which was done up to look like an old, rustic inn, standing out against the brick and mortar of the surrounding businesses. Another cab was just pulling away from the curb as they pulled up.

Gaby climbed out and looked over the top of the cab to the sign that hung out over the street.

The Éirinn Mac.

“It says he’s inside,” Illya said, tucking his tracking device into the pocket of his leather coat. Gaby nodded and came around the cab as Illya paid the driver. They watched him drive off before stepping inside.

The entrance was narrow and paneled with dark wood, glass mirrors painted with different brands of spirits were hung from the walls, most of them shattered. Gaby looked down to avoid the crunch of glass beneath her feet. Voices could be heard from inside and she focused on that instead of the looming form of Illya behind her.

“Well, look at this, the high lord deigned to visit us lowly peasants,” a deep, accented voice was saying.

“Don’t start with that,” Solo responded. “What happened?”

“I told you what happened on the phone.” There was the thump of a chair being righted. “No need to come here to ask me that.”

Gaby peeked out around the corner that led from the small dining room to the bar proper, wanting to observe without being seen and Illya slid up behind her, his body warm against her back. She held her breath for a moment but refused to be distracted.

Like the entrance and the dining area, the bar was in ruins. Stools and chairs scattered and broken, most of the tables overturned. In the middle of it was Solo, standing in his long coat, his hands on his hips, which revealed the dark blue, bespoke suit he was wearing underneath. The other man, who was easily as broad as Solo but not quite as tall, with a head of salt and pepper hair, was a stark contrast in dark trousers and a white shirt that had several unbuttons done at the collar.

“Would you stop giving me shit and sit down?” Solo asked. He sounded exasperated, a tone Gaby knew was rare on him.

“Comes in here like a shaper telling me what to do,” the man grumbled before thumping one of the unbroken chairs down hard.

“ _Da_ ,” Solo said, a plaintive tone to his voice that she had never heard before. The man looked up and Gaby caught her breath at the realization of who he was. She reached up and tugged at Illya’s jacket sleeve without taking her eyes off the two men. Illya leaned in closer so he could peer out for himself and she felt him still.

“You’re hurt,” Solo finished, and the other man chuckled and shook his head. His smile was the most familiar, almost identical to Solo’s, though the lines it carved into his face were deeper and well used.

“You here t’ play nursemaid then?”

“Dammit, I’m here to see if you’re alright. Would you just sit and let me look at that cut on your head?”

The other man sighed. “It ain’t nothing. Not the first time I’ve been battered, won’t likely be the last.”

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

There was another smile, this one more genuine. “Must be where you get it from.”

Solo laughed, shaking his head. “At least put some ice on it.”

Gaby watched as the older man flopped into a chair. “Fine then, fetch it up.”

Solo went behind the bar as if he was familiar with it and scooped some ice into a bar towel. Bringing it to the man, he pulled up a chair with the legs still intact, though the back was missing, and sat down across from him.

“What happened?”

“Eh,” he waved a hand and then winced as he set the ice against the cut at his hairline. “Bunch'a thugs came in here pretended to be Westies. Tore up the place, broke Petey’s hand.”

“You sure they _weren’t_ Westies?”

“Nah, I know that lot. These boys were playacting at being rumbly, and I ain’t never seen but one of them before.”

“You recognized one of them? But not from around here.”

There was a pause as the elder looked away. His gaze fell right on Gaby and she knew they were caught. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he tilted his head.

“You bring friends?” he asked, and Solo turned around sharply as she and Illya stepped out from the shadows.

“Of course,” Solo said shaking his head.

Gaby crossed her arms. “You promised me dessert.”

Solo stood to his feet. “You didn’t follow me, I was watching…” He stopped mid-sentence and swore under his breath. “Where’s the tracker? Not my shoes, I checked.”

Illya relaxed into his stance, a tiny, smug smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Your belt.”

Solo glared.

“Your sunglasses, your watch.”

He smacked a hand down on his watch. “My – do you know how much I paid for this?”

“Did you pay for it, though?” Gaby couldn’t help but ask.

“Very funny, Teller.”

“Are you going to introduce me,” the other man asked. “Or am I just background scenery now.”

Solo's sigh was the epitome of long-suffering. “These are my partners,” he said, waving a hand at them. “Gabriela Teller and Illya Kuryakin.” He looked at them hard and steady for a moment then turned back to the man in the chair. “This is my father, Gavin Solo.”

Illya’s stance changed, taking in the man with a slow, intent gaze.

Gaby looked at Solo. “So that really is your last name,” she said as she stepped forward and held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said briskly. “I was beginning to wonder if this one even had proper antecedents.”

Gavin chuckled as he took her hand. “I like this one already.” He put his other hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “You seem like a bright lass who has little time for stooks.” He tilted his head in Solo’s direction while giving her a smile with magnetism so strong it gave the younger Solo a run for his money. “How do you put up with this one?”

“Ah, I see where he gets it from,” Gaby said, recognizing the attempt to reel her in, charm her.

“Didn’t work for me either, Dad,” Solo interjected.

Gavin kept his eyes on Gaby. Smiling green eyes bright with laughter and that particular sort of wisdom that came only with time on the earth. “Ah, but I am not you.”

Beside her, Illya cleared his throat, suddenly towering over both of them. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Solo,” he said, an edge to his tone as he held out his large hand.

Gaby chuckled and withdrew hers and Gavin released it without protest as he turned his attention to Illya. They shook hands firmly, Illya’s falling back to his side and squeezing into a fist.

Gavin frowned. “Russian?”

“I am,” Illya said slowly, wary but firm.

“Interesting, I thought –”

“I’m working for an international group these days,” Solo said by way of explanation. “Loaned out they call it.”

“Well, welcome to the Éirinn Mac, on the night of her end.”

“What are you talking about?” Gaby asked.

Solo looked around. “Don’t worry about it, Gaby. Now that you two know I’m not up to whatever hijinks you suspected, you can go. There’s a trifle in the refrigerator if you head back to my place.”

“We did not suspect hijinks,” Illya said.

“You practically _flew_ out of the place,” Gaby said. “And you’re not as good an actor as you think. At least not around us, not anymore.”

“We came in case there was trouble,” Illya finished.

The words seemed to make Solo pause. His father looked up at him with a curious expression.

“Well,” he said after a moment. “The trouble has passed, so you’re not really needed here.” He and Illya exchanged a look that had Illya settling back onto his heels and crossing his arms. Gaby suppressed a smile at the show of stubbornness.

“I don’t think we’re going anywhere,” she said and then turned to Gavin. “What did you mean ‘on the night of her end?’”

“There’s no coming back from this mess, lass.”

“I’ll help you put the place back together and you’ll be back in business by tomorrow night.”

Gavin dropped his hands onto his thighs, including the now dripping bar towel, tinged pink with his blood. “You think this is the worst of it?” he tilted his chin toward the back. “Go take a look downstairs.”

Solo stilled. “ _No_.”

“Aye,” Gavin signed and pressed the ice back to his head.

Solo turned and headed in that direction. Gaby looked up at Illya for a moment. He gave a little nod to their silent communication. She’d follow Solo and he’d talk to dad.

Her shoes were loud on the old wooden steps as she descended into the dimly lit cellar. The air around her was pungent with the scent of beer and alcohol mixed with the mild, dank scent one usually found in rooms underground.

She found Solo at the doorway to the room, one hand in his pocket as the other pushed through his hair. When he realized she was there he dropped it and relaxed his shoulders, trying to put on that air of nonchalance.

Gaby came off the last step and felt a splash beneath her toes. She looked down and realized the floor was flooded about half an inch. She hadn’t questioned the scents of alcohol until now since they were in a bar, but she felt a growing sense of unease as she drew up next to Solo in the doorway.

The cellar where the beverages for the bar were stored was a disaster. The floor covered with shattered bottles and keg after keg, each with multiple punctures, had leaked their contents all over the floor. Several of them had been taped over to try and save the contents but it was obvious the attempt was futile.

Gaby surveyed the demolition with a sense of anger and sadness. She could well understand having one’s possessions destroyed, one's livelihood threatened, and a pulse of fury ran up her spine. She turned to Solo, her jaw set, expecting to find anger in him as well but what she saw instead was resignation and pain.

“Are you all right?” she found herself asking.

“You warned me, Gaby.” He shook his head. “He couldn’t have laid me lower if he tried,” he said, not taking his eyes off the room. “And he knows it.”

❧

Illya watched Gaby follow Solo, his eyes quickly tracing over her as if he might not see her again. A habit he had picked up in Rome last year and one he was loath to let go of anytime soon. When she had disappeared from view he turned back to the man in the chair. Cowboy’s father.

He hadn’t expected that. The American had only ever mentioned a mother, spoke of her as if she was still with them. It was only recently, on the anniversary of her death, that he and Gaby had learned that she was not.

“Are you all right?” he asked the man.

“I’ll live,” he replied, letting his head fall back to the wall behind him.

Illya pulled his bag around to his front. “I have first aid kit. Would you allow me to tend to your wound?”

The elder Solo looked at him with one eye for a moment, then said, “Sure, why not.”

“Thank you,” Illya said and then pulled up the broken chair Solo had abandoned. The other man leaned forward and Illya looked at the cut, taking in the swollen tissue around it, the rough edges of the skin. He’d been struck with something blunt but angular. “Are you dizzy?”

“Not anymore.”

“You should perhaps go to the hospital.”

“Nah, I’ll be to rights soon enough. No need to bring a sawbones into it.”

Illya wiped a swath of iodine over the cut and the man gave an almost imperceptible flinch. “You could use a stitch… or two,” he said. Gavin made a disgruntled sound. Illya carefully dried the skin and hummed. “Here,” he said after a moment. He opened his bag and pulled out a roll of olive drab colored tape. He tore off two, narrow strips.

“I’ve never been patched up by a Russkie before,” the man said quietly as Illya worked.

“And I,” he said, focusing on the task of lining up the skin, “have never patched up a Paddy before.”

There was a chuckle and Illya allowed himself a small smile. He laid the strips of tape over the wound to hold it together, pressing down gently.

“There, it will still bleed but, if you do not mess with it, it should hold.”

Gavin leaned back in his chair. “Good to know.”

They were quiet for a moment as Illya put away his things. When he looked up he said, “Earlier you implied you had seen one of the men before, the men who did this. Where had you seen him?”

Gavin looked at him keenly for a long moment. “You know the situation my son is in?”

“I know much, yes.”

“That man what likes to think he owns my lad,” Gavin said slowly. “He comes in here now and then. Checks the books, harasses my people. I’ve seen that tosser with him before.”

“With Sanders?” Illya checked, voice low.

“That’d be him.” Gavin sighed and pushed to his feet.

“So,” Illya said slowly. “You believe Sanders is behind this?”

“It was him,” came Solo’s voice and Illya turned to watch he and Gaby reenter the room. Gaby looked grim, her eyes lighting on his telling him things were not good.

She looked beautiful, even in her worry, and he had at least a hundred questions to ask her, starting with ‘ _did you mean it?_ ’ but now wasn’t the time for any of them.

Gavin smiled, a sardonic, sad thing that was disconcertingly familiar to one he had seen on his partner’s face a few times. “She’s peeled, son. There’s not much to be done for it.”

“Look,” Solo said holding a hand up to his father. “It hasn’t been the best night. I think I should take you upstairs, we’ll get some sleep and we can tackle this problem tomorrow.”

“You sending me to bed, Lion?” Gavin asked, and Gaby and Illya looked at each other. Solo closed his eyes as Gaby mouthed ‘lion?’ behind his back.

“Thanks for that, Da, and yes, I’m sending you to bed,” he turned to Illya then. “Does he have a concussion?”

“Mild one, but he will be fine. He is talking and clear,” Illya answered. “Sleep will be good.”

They followed Solo and his father to the upstairs apartment. It was a modestly furnished place, with well-worn furniture covered in hand knit throws and kitschy pillows. There was an open kitchen and a small table with a blue, Formica top.

“Don’t forget to greet your mother,” Gavin called as he moved into the kitchen area. Illya and Gaby looked at Solo in question. He just walked over to the fireplace mantle, kissed two fingers and pressed them to the urn there.

Illya noticed Gaby tilt her head as if in curiosity.

What must it be like to have these reminders, he wondered, these remnants of the ones you loved who were now gone? He thought of his father, buried who knows where, and of Gaby’s family. At least Waverly had made sure Udo had been given a proper burial. Gaby could visit his grave, though she had yet to do so, he knew.

“You kids make yourself comfortable, I’ll wet some tea,” Gavin called and Solo sighed loudly and made his way toward him.

“No, no tea, _bed_.”

The older man narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m going to sleep?”

“I think you should try,” Solo said. “We’re not going to solve anything if you’re out of it from exhaustion.”

“Fine, but if it were any other day, I’d box yer ears for trying to boss me.”

The two men disappeared into the other room, leaving Illya and Gaby alone. He turned to her, to see her, check on her, and because he couldn’t _not_ look to her whenever she was near. She’d been distant all evening and he couldn’t help but think she must regret those last moments they had together before he’d left for Moscow a month ago.

She was taking in the room, giving it that special attention to detail that was unique to her. Each of them saw different things, pulled out different details, it was part of what made them a great team.

He used her distraction to run a hand over his aching ribs. He was pretty sure nothing was broken, but he should probably wrap them at some point. He’d left off it that morning, not wanting to show weakness as he left the USSR behind.

Eventually her eyes flicked up to his and they caught for a moment, dark and as veiled as always. He longed to see behind that veil and truly understand just one thing going on inside her mind.

“I think I will ‘wet the tea,’” she said smartly, moving toward the kitchen and turning away from him. He watched her go, wanting to say something but uncertain what.

He had spent the month way, when his mind wasn’t busy with the work he’d had to do, thinking of her and what would happen when he returned. He’d told himself over and over again that she would come to her senses before then and apparently that was exactly what had happened, but he hadn’t prepared himself nearly well enough for the disappointment of it.

“So,” he said, then cleared his throat. “What are we going to do about this?”

Gaby lit a match and turned a knob on the old stove. She used the match to light the burner and then shook it out. She glanced over at him before setting the kettle over the flame.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I will probably call Waverly in the morning.”

“That is a good idea,” Illya said. “He needs to know about Sander’s antics at the very least.”

“I told Solo his attitude was going to get him into trouble,” Gaby said.

“You told him?”

Gaby shrugged and took a seat at the small table. “Our last mission collected some information that we deemed best kept to UNCLE alone. Solo, of course, had to taunt Sanders with the idea that he knew something the other man didn’t.” She tapped her fingernails on the Formica a moment. “I had a _feeling_ he was going to retaliate somehow.” She looked around. “I didn’t expect this.”

“Who would?” Illya asked. “Did you know his father was here?”

“I didn’t even know he still _had_ a father,” she said and at the word, they shared a look. It wasn’t an easy word for either of them.

“Clearly, I do,” Solo said, stepping into the room to rejoin them. “You’ve discovered my deep dark secret.”

Gaby rolled her eyes at him.

“Will he be alright?” Illya asked. Health wise he thought the man would be fine but being assaulted, having something you care about destroyed, these things could have differing effects on people.

“Well, his livelihood has been taken away,” Solo said with a rare sharpness to his tone. “And he was attacked in his place of business, essentially his home…” he pulled up the third chair and sat in it backward. _Like a cowboy_ , Illya thought. He watched his partner, his friend, rub his brow. “He’s as tough as anyone though… I just can’t…”

“Why did Sanders go after your father?” Illya asked.

“He knows, or rather he _suspects,_ that I sent him the money to open this place.” He looked between them. “Before I was… ‘taken in’ by the CIA. I knew he was coming by to ‘check the books’ etc. Looking for some kind of loophole, I suppose, but I never thought anything would come of it.”

There was a moment of silence. Illya knew well the tactics his people would enact to get the information they wanted. He had always justified it in his mind somehow, even though he knew… from his own experience… it wasn’t always justifiable. He glanced up at Gaby and knew she was looking at her own memories, felt a wash of guilt over them, even though he didn’t know them. He knew enough.

The kettle started to whistle, and he moved to stand but Gaby beat him to it. She poured the boiling water into the pot and then wrapped it in a towel to keep it warm before setting it on the table between them. She went to the cupboard to fetch cups, reaching for one by the sink.

“Other side,” Solo directed, watching her.

Gaby followed the instruction and pulled down three mismatched mugs, more suited to coffee than tea.

“I still don’t quite understand why this means an end to the bar,” Gaby said as she returned, setting a cup down in front of each of them.

“St. Patrick’s Day,” Solo said, looking up at her. She looked as mystified as Illya was and a small smile danced over Solo’s mouth. “It’s kind of a big deal around these parts, and this is an Irish bar. The place has been doing well, but it’s not exactly flush with liquid assets. Dad likely put all he had into that booze downstairs to make sure he had enough for the holiday, add that to the bands he had to pay to secure, etc. and not being open this coming Tuesday will most likely put him completely out of business.”

“Who are the Westies?” Illya asked, remembering an earlier part of the conversation.

“A local gang and a _whole_ other problem,” Solo said. “I want sugar,” he said pushing to his feet. He fetched a bowl of sugar from the cupboard, then cream and jam from the icebox, setting the latter down in front of Illya.

“There must be something we can do,” Gaby said.

“I think we can put the place back together,” Illya said. “I know a bit about mending broken furniture,” he added with a quirk of his lips.

“One bartender has a broken hand,” Solo said, “The other probably won’t come back, she was… well, it certainly wasn’t nice…”

Illya swore under his breath and Gaby’s cup hit the table top hard. “Is she okay?”

Solo looked up at her. “She’s not injured. Nothing physical happened, just words, but Dad said she was pretty rattled.”

“I can imagine.”

“Even if we solve the problem of help,” Solo continued. “There’s still the issue of alcohol and food stuffs. I don’t see how we’re going to solve that. I don’t have the resources to bring in that level of supplies on such short notice.”

“I don’t think all the bottles were broken,” Gaby said firmly. “I think, if we go look, we’ll find some unharmed underneath.”

“It won’t be enough.”

“But it is a start,” Illya said.

Solo pushed back slightly in his chair. “You two don’t need to stay here for this. It’s my problem.”

“Your problem is our problem,” Gaby said simply, then turned to him. “We’re a team.”

“Yes,” Illya said holding her gaze. Was there another meaning to her words? He couldn’t tell. He turned back to Solo. “We are going to help.”

“Yes, we are,” Gaby said. “But first. Tell us about your injury.”

He watched as both his partners turned their attentions to him.

“Your ribs, right?” Solo said. “Are they broken?”

“And how did it happen?” Gaby demanded.

Illya sighed and reached for the teapot to pour himself a cup. He needed to hydrate for this inquisition.

❧

Illya was asleep on a bar stool. His arms were crossed over his chest, his head ducked down, feet on the floor because he was so fucking tall. Solo smirked at the sight as he pulled out another broken glass and tossed it into the large bin he’d pulled inside.

He looked over at Gaby who was sweeping the barroom floor and caught her eye, tilting his head in the Russian’s direction. She rolled her eyes and he chuckled. Few things annoyed Gaby quite like his and Illya’s ability to sleep in the most unlikely of places when she could hardly sleep in the most luxurious of beds.

He looked over at Illya again. He’d been trying to repair the broken speaker and had probably just meant to close his eyes for a moment. Solo wasn’t going to complain, at least not until it was called for. It had been obvious to him the moment Peril had come in the door that the man was exhausted. Just like the last time.

The idea made Solo feel ill at ease. The tenuous balance they had found at UNCLE was so uncanny, so unlikely, the thought of what work they put The Red Peril to on the other side of that curtain worried him. How small an incident would it take to upset it all? The distance between their philosophies was so wide that he could hardly imagine it would take much.

He honestly didn’t like to think about it, but the way Illya had devoured his food, his injury, the way he was sleeping now, even though he had been the first to suggest they start immediately, all spoke to darker things back home.

“He looked awful,” Gaby said, and Solo made eye contact with her across the bar. “When he showed up at your apartment.”

“Mmm.”

“I don’t think they treat him well,” she said quietly. She took a long look at the sleeping man and Solo had a feeling she was remembering the sight of his bruises.

“I don’t think they ever have,” he responded. There wasn’t much else to say. These weren’t new thoughts, to either of them.

Gaby dumped her collection of broken wood and glass into the bin and Solo watched her as she took a moment to stretch her back afterward.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

She frowned. “I told you, we’re a team.”

“At _work_ ,” he said. “We’re a team at work. Real life…”

“What?” she asked turning and resting an arm on the bar as she narrowed her eyes at him. “Outside of work we’re nothing?”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s easy for you to refer to off work hours as ‘real life,’ this is your home.” Her eyes darted to Illya then back again. “Some of us are still outsiders.” She shook her head and pushed off the bar. “I thought we were more to you than that… after everything.”

“Gaby,” he said. Then, when she didn’t turn around he went after her, rounding the bar and taking her arm. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“What did you mean then, hmm? You prefer to work alone?”

“I’m not used to doing things any other way,” he said. “I’m not used to having a team anymore,” he admitted, the revelation sending a pulse of anxiety through him. A crack in the mask he’d spent years creating. “In work or in life. I’m still adapting.”

Gaby looked at him, her face softening a little. “I think we all are.” She looked around. “But you’ve got family here, Solo.” She shook her head. “You need to stop taking that for granted.”

Solo turned away, not wanting to go near that conversation.

“What about you and Peril?” He asked just as she’d started to move away.

She stopped, still for a split second then turned, her gaze skimming over the Russian before landing on him. “What do you mean?”

Solo moved back behind the bar and returned to checking the drinkware, steadier now that the spotlight was off him. “There’s been a bit of tension between the two of you since he got back.”

Gaby scoffed. “You’re imagining things.”

“I mean, well, there’s always been tension between you two,” he said, giving her a significant look as he wiped out a pint glass. “But this is a little different.”

Gaby settled back on one leg, crossing her arms, dustpan and all. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Alright then, if that’s how we’re playing it.”

“I’m not playing at anything,” Gaby said sharply then sighed. She set the dustpan down and wiped her hands on her skirt, which made him grimace because it was a very nice item of clothing. Maybe he should have found her something else to wear for this work.

“I’m going to go down and start looking for unbroken bottles,” she said, and he followed her with his eyes as she walked away. When she was gone he turned to look at Illya propped up on his stool.

Something had happened between them, but he’d be damned if he could figure out what. They weren’t fighting, they sure as hell weren’t together… He was half tempted to wake his partner up and give him the third degree, but he remembered well the gaunt look to Illya’s face when he’d opened the door to him just a handful of hours ago.

Let him sleep. There would be time enough for grilling later.

❧

Illya found them an hour or so later, in the cellar looking through the supplies. He stood in the doorway watching them with a glower.

“Well, hello sleeping beauty,” Solo said.

Illya ignored the comment. “Why did you let me sleep?”

Gaby looked up from inspecting a bottle of Jameson and gave him that sharp look of hers. “Why do you think?” she said setting the bottle aside.

“I don’t need you to coddle me.”

“You were dead on your feet,” she said. “It’s not coddling, it’s keeping you _useful_.”

Illya’s response was to exhale sharply through his nose.

“She’s got you there, Peril,” Solo said from where he was looking through a partially shattered crate.

“There is much to do,” he said moving into the room. “Sleeping can come later.” He moved to one of the crates. “Where should I start.”

Gaby looked over at Solo who glanced back at her before waving a hand to the line of broken crates. “We’re going through all the broken ones first to see what’s left, then clearing out the mess so we can see what’s underneath. Just start anywhere.”

Illya nodded.

They spent the day cataloging what was left of use in the bar, what could be repaired and what needed to be thrown away. Most of the decor was destroyed and even some parts of the dark oak walls were irreparably scarred. Solo’s father came down to help, serving them all a large breakfast and at one o’clock, a few of the employees showed up, one or two them still unaware of what had happened.

“I’m afraid we won’t be open today, lads,” Gavin had said. “And I can’t promise to pay you for it, but I sure could use the help.”

Three of them stayed on and two went home.

By nightfall the place was mostly cleaned up and cleared out. The Éirinn Mac had less than half her furniture, most of her drinkware and about one-third of her alcohol supply. Gavin leaned on the bar and looked them over.

“I appreciate the help,” he said. “But I don’t see how we can open in this state.”

“You just let me figure that out,” Solo said, settling his hands on his hips.

Gavin shook his head, looking down at the bar. “Stubborn as your mother,” he murmured. “Fine then, you figure it out. But first, go home and get some rest.” His gaze flitted over Illya, who was working to put a leg back on one of the chairs, and Gaby who was sitting on a bar stool with her chin in her hand. “Sleep, the lot of you, or I won’t let you in the door tomorrow.”

Solo smiled. “As if I won’t just pick the lock.”

❧

Gaby fell asleep on Illya’s shoulder in the taxi ride to her apartment. He looked down at the top of her head as it bobbed forward with every bump and turn. Finally, he lifted his arm and tucked her beneath it, adjusting his position so she could rest properly against his chest. It was as close as he’d been to her in some time and he could smell the scent of her hair, a mix of her favored shampoo and just her since she hadn’t washed it now for two full days. He gave in to the desire to press his lips to the top of her head, to let the tip of his nose graze over her.

He’d been back for twenty-four hours now and they still hadn’t really spoken about what had happened. The more time passed, the less certain he felt about broaching the subject, the more distant that moment between them began to feel.

Maybe he had imagined it.

The cab pulled up to the curb in front of her building and he gently set her away from him before giving her shoulder a little shake.

“Gaby.” His voice was low in the dark interior of the cab. “We’re here.” He hated waking her at all because he knew there was always a chance she wouldn’t fall back to sleep, but he also knew she wouldn’t stand for him carrying her.

She opened her eyes and looked around a moment, gaining her bearings. Then she turned to him, her eyes in shadow.

“You’re going back to your place?” she asked, her voice a little hoarser than usual, edged with sleep.

“Yes,” he said, then taking a chance, “Do you want me to walk you up?”

She looked back at him for an achingly long moment then shook her head. “No, you go home and get some sleep.” She turned away, gathering her purse and opening the door before turning back to him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He nodded and then watched her go. He didn’t signal the driver to leave until she was inside the doors of her building. When she was out of sight he settled back against the seats and gave the driver his address.

This was the state of things, he told himself. Nothing had changed. They were still friends, partners. Everything else was just an aberration. He would have to be alright with that. He would take Gaby in his life however she allowed him. He sighed and looked out the window at the passing city.

Thirty-six hours ago, he’d been in Moscow and now he was here, in the heart of the capitalist west. But the only thing he wanted was the one thing Western decadence couldn’t give him.

❧

Gaby looked at herself in the mirror as she undressed. Her blouse was smudged and dirty, her skirt in even worse shape. She only took half a moment to lament the articles of clothing. They weren’t her favorite but were functional, appropriate for the office and comfortable enough to get actual work done.

She rolled her stockings off and tossed them on the chair before pulling out a pair of pajamas. The ones on top were blue and white striped and as she set her hand on them she thought of Illya.

It was ridiculous really, that he should come to mind at the sight of the garment, but such was the case. These were the ones that had been bought for her to take to Rome, and they had gone on a few missions since then. They’d even survived a shootout.

Even _that_ memory had Illya attached to it.

_“Do you want me to walk you up?”_

Why hadn’t she said yes?

She closed her eyes for a moment. Nothing had gone like she’d expected it to. She’d been waiting a month, swaying back and forth between hope and regret the entire time. She’d expected… _something_. Something to come of it, not just this… nothing. Same interactions, same not knowing.

Maybe it was better? At least she hadn’t wrecked the partnership. She should be glad of that.

She wasn’t ready for Illya to be out of her life, not now, not anytime soon. The month he’d been gone she’d felt so much more out of place in the world. Each day expecting to see his face — waiting in their office with a cup of coffee for her, fighting with her over how to interact with a mark, or fashion, or capitalism. Or, even more recently, seeing him at the bottom of her stairs, waiting for her so they could walk together to work.

It had become so sure, so comfortable. Maybe this wake-up call was needed. Maybe things simply weren’t meant to be that way between them.

❧

Solo watched his father standing over the stove, frying potatoes. A sight so familiar it was somehow as settling as it was unsettling.

He had been living his life on his own terms for some time now. He had thought he’d left his father in a good place, that he didn’t need to worry, but now, watching him cook, his hair disheveled, his face drawn in lines of weariness, he realized that his father was getting older.

He wasn’t _old_ , not by any stretch, but that time would come, and Solo found the thought intensely troublesome. His father was an icon to him. Someone _not_ to become but also… well, also an example of strength. The idea that someone would have to care for him at some point was not only a reality check but a real look at mortality and what it had in store for all of them one day.

It also made him think of Gaby’s words. He thought then of his partners, both without fathers… Gaby had lost two… He had simply been ignoring his.

“We’ll get the place up, Da,” he said, affection slipping into the title. “I’ll figure out the booze thing.”

“You gonna steal me a load of Gat, Lion?”

“If that’s what I have to do,” Solo said, and meant it.

His father smiled. “You are a good lad,” he said. “I don’t tell you that near enough.”

“You are a stark liar,” Solo said. “I’m a shit son.” He looked at the dark liquid in his cup. He really was. Gone to war early, didn’t come home until he’d been forced to. Stayed away even after that, and for no good reason really. Completely shit.

“No,” Gavin said shaking his head. “Not perfect by any stretch, but not shit.” He stirred the potatoes one final time, nodding at them. “Grab the plates, yea?”

Solo set his coffee down and did as was asked of him. He held one plate while his father slid a pile of brown and crispy potato rounds onto his plate.

“You wrote to your mother, sent money home, came when she needed you,” Gavin finished. When both plates were filled, he set the pan aside and took Solo’s cheek in his palm, stopping him from turning to set the plates on the table. “And now you’re here.” He smiled crookedly and gave his face a light slap. “Not too bad, Napoleon, not too bad at all, I’d ay.”

His father took one of the plates and sat, grabbing up his fork immediately. Solo looked at him a moment before following suit, listening as his father sent up a familiar prayer of thanks for his food, a prayer Solo had heard all the years of his growing up. He ducked his head quickly and followed suit, finding an odd comfort in the ritual. Then the two men ate together in silence.

❧

“This is very troublesome,” Waverly said over the line, “and you’re certain it was Sanders?”

“Well, we can’t be certain,” Gaby said. “But Mr. Solo seems sure he’d seen one of the assailants with Sanders on one of his visits, and Solo seems pretty sure.”

“What do you think?”

Gaby chewed her lip a moment, not in uncertainty but simply a subconscious action as she examined her own feelings. “I’ve been thinking, for some time, that things were not going smoothly in that area. The way Sanders looked at him the last time we met up… and that was while I was there.”

“Alright. You know how much I trust your instincts. I will look into it and see what I can dig up,” Waverly said. “Hopefully I can find something concrete to bring to the table. As for the other thing, I’ll see what I can do.”

❧

Gaby was dressed in an old pair of navy pedal pushers and a worn, gray sweater. Her hair, pulled back into a simple ponytail, fell straight and shiny over her shoulder. Illya was wearing his usual, turtleneck and gray trousers as he worked in the kitchen. She watched him a moment and wondered, not for the first time, whether he had a large collection of them or if he just did very regular loads of laundry.

His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing a nice length of sinewy forearm which distracted her every time she looked in his direction. She brought him another pile of dishes and set them on the counter.

“Do you think we need to wash everything?” she asked, taking a moment to lean on the countertop.

“I think it is best to be safe,” Illya said. “With all the dust that was stirred up.” He glanced at her with a little smile. “And what do you mean ‘we?’ I seem to be the only one doing any washing.”

“I’m going to dry!” she said giving his shoulder a shove.

“Hmm, I will believe it when I see it.”

Gaby rolled her eyes and then bumped her hip into him as she moved away. “Very funny. I’m going to find you more things to wash then, keep you busy.”

He turned to watch her, feeling the casual openness of the moment. He stood up and turned more fully, wiping his hands quickly on the towel he’d tied at his waist, wanting to seize the moment.

“Gaby,” he called. She turned, her hair flying through the air in a glittering arc.

“Yes?”

“I wanted to ask you –”

“There’s a bloke at the door what says he knows you!” one of the servers, Tilly, announced, coming into the kitchen breathless. “He’s got a truckload of crates and I dunno what else!”

Gaby nodded to her. “I’ll be right there.” She turned and gave Illya an apologetic look before hurrying out after the girl.

“Well that was anticlimactic,” Solo said, stepping into the room from the other direction. “What were you going to ask her about?”

“It is none of your business, Cowboy,” Illya grumbled, glowering at the American as he turned back to the dishes. The look was a bit offset by the towel at his waist and the dark spot of water on his trouser leg.

“No, probably not, but I have to admit I am curious,” Solo said coming further into the room. “And maybe talking about it will help.”

Illya sighed and shoved his hands into the sink. “Maybe you should go see about that delivery.”

❧

Outside Waverly was leaning against the side of an unmarked truck, looking as nonchalant as he did aloof. All class and British reserve on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, fetching looks from everyone who passed.

“This is much faster than I expected,” Gaby said, trying not to smile too widely. “Even for you.”

“It was nothing, Miss Teller,” he said. “I have an _uncle_ in the business.”

Gaby looked at him sideways as she watched Gavin climb inside to look the crates over. “Sure you do.”

“This is impossible,” Gavin said. He hopped down from the back of the truck spryly and walked up to Waverly. “Please make out a receipt so I know how much I owe you for this.”

“I assure you, Mr. Solo, you owe me nothing. This has all been paid for.”

“By who?”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” he answered. “Confidentiality agreement.” He looked to Gaby for a moment and she saw the subtle light of mischief in his blue eyes. “Spy business.”

“Still, Mr. Waverly,” Gavin said. “Thank you, and I’ll figure out how to pay this back. I ain’t taking any free rides.”

“Of course not,” Waverly said. “I expect no less. Now, I need to be going. There’s a bit of a situation brewing that I need to see to.”

“Is it Barcelona?” Gaby asked.

“Don’t you worry about it right now, Miss Teller. You have your mission.” His smile was small, reserved but genuine. “I expect you three will live up to your reputation, have it all wrapped up with only minor drama and off plan action.”

Gaby chuckled. “We will do our best.”

Solo watched the exchange from just within the doorway of the Éirinn Mac, his chest tight. He was unable to summon his usual indifference and therefore, couldn’t get himself to walk out and greet Waverly. Instead, he waited until the man had left, ducking around the corner back into the bar.

Gaby came in a few moments later, looking for hands to help unload the heavy crates and by then he’d pulled himself together, giving her a roguish smile.

“Well, wasn’t that nice of the old man,” he said as if the whole outcome had been expected. “I guess we’ll be in business tomorrow after all.”

“You could have said thank you,” Gaby said as she passed him to fetch Illya.

“Why would I do that?”

❧

That evening — alcohol put away, rooms cleaned, kitchen put back together — the team sat quietly in the small dining room eating the pasties that Gavin had made them. Gaby turned hers over, inspecting it carefully before taking a bite and Solo shook his head at her.

“You’ll drive a jalopy straight into a gunfight without flinching, but you can’t take a bite of a meat pie without suspicion.”

“I have faith in my driving skills,” she said firmly. “But I’m wary of other people’s cooking skills.”

Illya smiled at that and watched as Gaby ducked her head to take a tentative nibble. Illya already knew it was good. Tender chicken with tarragon and cream, baked in a flaky crust. He wasn’t picky about food the way his partners were, but he could appreciate good flavor when he had it.

“It’s good,” he told her, and finished his off in two bites.

At his word, she took a more substantial bit and nodded in approval. “It is good. Again, your father is a good cook.”

Solo sighed.

They all opted to stay the night at the pub. This time Gaby wasn’t the only one with a feeling that something could go wrong in the night and nullify all their hard work. There was always a chance Sander’s men would check in, to be assured they’d succeeded. There was also a strong chance the local gang would see this moment of weakness as a chance to press their advantage.

They weren’t quite strong enough to bring The Éirinn Mac under their thumb yet, but they would try. If not now, then later. Solo was really hoping for later.

There was a small room in the back where Gavin usually stored boxes of random things. The boxes were stacked against the wall and a cot set up for Gaby. They stayed up late into the night, sampling the whiskey and listening to Gavin’s tales of St. Patrick’s Days past. Some stories were funny, others sad and a few of them downright romantic.

The final story was about a woman who had stormed into the pub late in the evening, stood on the bar in front of one of the patrons, letting him know she was in love with him and demanded to know, ‘are you in or are you out?’ She’d wanted a kiss as proof and, after a shocked moment of silence, she’d gotten it and more.

After that, Gaby had excused herself and slipped off to the back room, Illya’s eyes following her until she’d closed the door. Gavin had bowed out not long after, waving a hand as he headed off to his upstairs apartment. When he was gone, Solo refilled Illya’s glass and then his own.

“You ready to talk about what’s going on between you and Gaby yet?” he asked before taking a sip of the whiskey.

“She kissed me,” Illya said, this time without hesitation, surprising his partner.

“What? When?” Solo demanded. He hadn’t expected that, God help him.

“Right before I left,” Illya said. “She cornered me in the hall and just… kissed me. Then she was gone before I could say or do anything… I’ve spent the last month wondering, thinking…” he bowed and shook his head. “Now I have no idea. Sometimes I think maybe it was a dream.”

“Well…” Solo took another drink. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“No, it has been… _difficult…_ with everything that is going on. No privacy, no spare moments. I think, maybe, it is too late now.”

Solo tipped his head. “No, I don’t think it’s too late,” he said slowly. “But you can’t put it off forever.”

“I don’t want to put it off,” Illya said, “I wanted…” he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I wanted. I think, perhaps, she has changed her mind.”

“Well, I know one thing for sure,” Solo said standing to his feet. “You won’t know unless you _ask_.”

He walked off to the kitchen and Illya looked long and hard at the door Gaby had disappeared behind.

Cowboy was right. He wouldn’t know, and things could not move forward fully, in either direction, unless he spoke with her. He pushed to his feet and felt the hum of the alcohol in his system. He hadn’t realized he’d had quite enough to affect him. Perhaps that is where this boldness was coming from, but he wasn’t going to back out now. He _needed_ to know.

He rapped quietly at the door and waited. There was no response. He knocked again, and then, when there was still no response, because he felt a sudden intense need to see she was alright, he cracked open the door and peered inside.

Gaby was curled up on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed in peaceful sleep. He knew it was probably wrong to do so, but he took a moment to look at her, to memorize her in this still peaceful state, and then quietly closed the door.

❧

By 9:30 am the next day, the first band had arrived, and people were already lurking around outside in their green attire and odd accessories. Gaby peered out the single window, looking at them curiously. One of the young women had a simple green scarf tied around her neck but another was wearing a pair of green, shamrocked trousers, bright in the late morning light.

There were hats and scarves and suspenders, flags and headbands and kilts. Solo came up beside her and peered out himself.

“Ahhh, looks like it’s going to be a fun year.” She looked over to see him smiling. He was wearing a white shirt and black slacks, the uniform of the bartenders and he looked strangely relaxed.

She herself was dressed in a simple, black shift dress. An apron with the Éirinn Mac logo on it was tied around her waist and Solo had given her a four-leaf clover pin to wear. She had also found a scarf in green, which she had tied around her neck like a loosened tie.

There was a loud bang and the turned to see one of the band members recovering the huge acoustic bass he was setting up at the back of the stage. Solo made a face and went over to help.

“Well,” Gavin said. “We’re just about ready. You sure you’re up for this. Gonna be a lot of frisky lads on the lash.”

“I can handle myself,” Gaby said, brushing some invisible lint off her thigh. “Don’t you worry.”

“You know, I believe you can.”

She looked at him for a moment and then beyond him to the tall Russian who was wheeling in the last of the kegs to be hooked up to the taps. Like Solo and Gavin, he was dressed in a white button-down shirt and black slacks. They made his legs look even longer than usual and she traced her eyes over him before looking away.

Right into a set of laughing green eyes.

“You, girly,” Gavin said, looking her over. “Have got it bad.”

She lifted her chin but couldn’t find the will to deny it.

“You sure you want that tall, serious-looking thing over there?” he asked. “After all, I’m available.” He lifted his eyebrows but there was a playful smile on his lips that let her know he was only teasing.

“I’m afraid it’s rather hopeless,” she said severely. “Like you said, I’ve got it bad.” She found herself smiling as she looked away, peeking back out at the building crowd.

“You should probably let him know it, don’t you think?”

Gaby frowned. She thought of Illya in the narrow hallway that led to UNCLE’s airstrip, the warmth of his chest beneath her palms, the exhale of his breath over her lips just before she’d kissed him.

“I did,” she said softly. “I’m still waiting for his answer.”

❧

The music was loud and the crowd even louder. Illya’s ears rang with cacophony at first but after a while, he was able to put it all in the background, relegate it to white noise.

His ribs still ached a little, but most of the pain was gone. His place behind the bar kept him from being jostled by the crowd and since it was so loud, and the music was lively, no one expected him to carry on a conversation, which was probably a good thing.

“I need three pints of Gat!” Gaby said, coming up to the end of the bar. She looked harried but not unhappy, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. For a moment he was distracted by the sight of her, always so beautiful to him.

“What?” he asked a moment later than he should have.

“The Guinness!”

“Why don’t you just say Guinness then?”

“I’m getting into the lingo,” she said, smirking at him.

He filled the pints and set them on her tray, foam overflowing to run over his fingers and down the glass. He leaned in over the bar, so she could hear him better. “You are having fun.”

She huffed a piece of hair off her forehead and sighed. “Yes and no. It’s loud and my feet are killing me. Give me a vodka and put me under a car that needs fixing.”

He smiled softly at her. “The vodka I can do, the car will have to wait.”

“Thanks,” she said. She started to move away with the pints and then leaned back a moment, her mouth opened as if to say something, then she shook her head and moved away.

He watched her approach a table and hand out the pints. One of the men put his arm around her hips as she bent down and tried to pull her onto his lap. Illya went still, anger clouding his vision as he prepared to jump over the bar and tear that arm from his body, but Gaby beat him to it. She grabbed the man by his thumb, just as Illya had taught her, and bent it backwards until the man was squawking, leaning back to try and relieve the pressure. He couldn’t hear what she said over the music and the roar of the crowd, but her face was fierce and beautiful as she gave the man her words of warning.

Боже мой, he _loved_ her.

It was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. And probably the best.

The question was, what was he going to do about it?

“Peril,” Solo’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Can you go into the kitchen and help with the pasties? I’ve got to deal with the next band coming in. They are early and threatening to find another gig.”

“They are unlikely to find another job at this time,” Illya said, frowning that they would make such a fuss and make empty threats. “But, yes, I will help in the kitchen.”

That’s where he was when Gaby came in an hour later.

He was alone, the other cook having gone on a break, so he let himself pause a moment to look at her. She looked tired and she watched as she took a deep breath and leaned against the doors, closing her eyes a moment.

“Are you alright?” he asked, checking her over.

“Of course, just tired.” She pushed off and came over to him. “It’s like that job in Persia. You remember?”

“I do,” he said, nodding. It had been a roller coaster of hectic action mixed with bone-achingly dull repetition.

“Why haven’t you said anything,” she said suddenly.

He blinked, glancing at her and then turning again, this time taking a longer look. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was settled back on one leg, the other jutting out, foot tapping. It took him a moment to realize what she meant but the words. Then his face warmed.

“You still want me to?”

“Of course I want you to!” she said. “I kissed you, but nothing has changed. I don’t understand what you want.”

He frowned. “I kissed you _back_ ,” he said. “Did you think I didn’t mean it?”

She opened her mouth to answer and then they both stilled as Gavin walked through the kitchen. He didn’t bother to look at them, however, moving straight through and heading down into the cellar.

“This isn’t the time for this,” Gaby said stepping away. “I’m sorry.”

He reached for her, unable to stop himself, and took her arm, spinning her back around to look at him. “Why do you not trust me.”

“Trust you?” she demanded. “You gave me nothing!”

“I had to leave!” he growled. “You think the KGB is going to wait for me?”

“Since you’ve come back–”

“You seemed unsure. I thought… maybe,” he dropped his hand from her arm.

“I was _nervous_!” she hissed, leaning in, confessing. “You could have done something!”

“What did you want me to do?” he asked, leaning down, scowling. “Grab you? Kiss you? Make love to you? In front of Solo?”

She gasped softly, and his own words came back to him, causing his ears to warm but he didn’t back away.

“No,” she said sharply, then added, softer, slightly breathless. “Maybe.”

He felt her words shoot through him like a jolt of electricity and he took hold of her shoulders as he looked into her eyes. This time he could see desire and a fear he felt the answer to in his soul.

“Impossible woman,” he growled under his breath as he pulled her in. One hand came up to cup her cheek, lifting her chin so he could reach her mouth. When his lips met hers it was better than he remembered, warm and soft and sweet for a moment before her hand slid into the hair was the back of his head, holding him close as she moved her mouth in counterpoint to his, kissing him back passionately.

“Illya,” she whispered as he pulled away, her fingernails scratching at his scalp. “More.”

All he could do was exhale his amazement, pulling her even closer and lifting her up into his arms. He closed his mouth over hers again, kissing her hard, greedy, as he took two long steps across the space to set her n the counter. She wrapped her legs around him to hold him there, her dress riding up her thighs, and he leaned in, pressing one hand into the wall behind her as he tipped her back, kissing her repeatedly.

“Now that's what I call a resolution,” came Gavin’s voice, causing them to break apart suddenly. Illya pulled back but didn’t move away. Gaby’s hand fisted in his sleeve would have stopped him anyway.

Solo’s father had a keg on his shoulder and three bottles under his arm, but he was grinning at them.

“I guess you got that answer then,” he said with a wink and then walked off.

As soon as he was gone from view, Gaby started chuckling, her head falling forward onto Illya’s chest. He felt himself respond in kind, smoothing a hand over her ponytail and down her back, feeling the silky strands of her hair beneath his palm.

“Well,” he asked softly. “Are you satisfied with your answer?”

She looked up and grabbed the front of his shirt. “Not even a little bit,” she insisted, then bit her lip. “But it will have to do for now.”

“Gaby,” he said softly and then took her chin, tipping her up for another kiss, this one soft and slow. “I thought of nothing but this while I was away. Even when I thought you didn’t really mean it.”

“Now who isn’t trusting?”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have waited until you were leaving but I was…” she trailed off. He kissed her temple, his breath warming the hair over her ear.

“Afraid?”

She huffed.

“It’s alright,” he said softly against her earlobe, “I am scared down to my toes right now.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said. “I’ve got you.”

She kissed him this time, her lips working over his with slow, savoring deliberation.

“Really? On the counter? People make food there,” Solo said flatly, and they turned to look at him.

“Go away, _Lion_ ,” Gaby said tauntingly.

“Oh, I would love to. I would love to hie off and leave you two to this disgusting display that we’ve all been waiting for for months now, but there’s a bar full of drunk Irish and wish-they-were-Irish people out here who need someone to bring them beer.”

“I think you can handle one more minute on your own, Cowboy,” Illya said, his voice low as he turned back to Gaby. “We will be out then.”

“Now that this is officially a _thing_ ,” Solo said, “I’d like to formally request–”

“Solo,” Gaby said darkly. “Please shut up and leave.”

“Well,” he said, laying a hand against his chest as if he was a saintly matron who’d just heard a sacrilege. “I _never_.” He smirked at them and left the room.

“We are never going to hear the end of it from him,” Illya said softly.

“Worth it though, right?”

“Worth all of it and more,” he said and kissed her again.

“If you keep that up, I’ll never get off this counter,” she said, when he’d released her.

“Yes, you would,” his voice rumbled. “But it wouldn’t be to head out to the bar.”

“Oh,” she said, breathless. “ _Oh._ ”

Illya took a deep breath and stepped back, taking a moment to smooth her skirt back down over her legs, check her stockings, her hair.

“Do I look like I was just manhandled by a man in the kitchen?” She asked softly, sliding to her feet. One of her shoes had fallen off and she used her toe to pull it toward her.

“No, you look fine,” he said then looked her over. “Mostly fine.”

“Huh,” she said and then shook her head. She started toward the door, but he called her back.

“I…” he didn’t know what he’d meant to say, he only knew that worry was twisting in his guts, all of this too new and far too good for him.

Gaby came back and pressed a hand to his chest. “This doesn’t end here,” she said softly. “Nothing ends here. We’ve got work to do and when it’s done…” she gave a little shrug. “One thing at a time.”

Illya nodded. “Yes, I want that.”

“Me too.”

❧

“Last call!” Solo shouted to the room at large and everyone cheered and moaned in turn as they rushed to get in their last drink orders. There was a line of Guinness on the bar, pint after pint, ready and waiting. He chuckled as he watched it disappear, collecting payments as he went.

There was a little cheer from the crows and he turned, a little surprised as Illya lined up a dozen shot glasses and ran the bottle of Jameson over them (their very last bottle) filling them all with an odd, stoic sort of flair.

When the last of it had been consumed, they escorted the remaining lot out the doors, the last a group of young firefighters who went singing into the street with their arms around each other. Gavin closed the doors and locked them before turning to the group inside.

“Well, lads and lassies, we’ve done it,” he said with a smile. “That’s the close on another Saint Patty’s.”

His employees clapped and then sighed, staggering off, tired and worn, to collect their things and head home. This left his odd team of rescuers standing side by side. The young woman and the Russian were standing close to each other but not touching. He had a feeling that would only last until they were alone.

Not far from them was his son. His sleeves rolled up, a lock of hair falling in his face. It had been a while since Gavin had seen him look so real. He smiled, weariness making itself felt in his body. His bones ached, and his knee was complaining from the long day on his feet.

“I want to say thank you again for all your help,” he said looking at Illya and Gaby. “It was above and beyond, that’s for certain.”

“It was no problem,” Illya said. “We were happy to help.”

“I’ve never worked in a bar before,” Gaby said giving a little shrug. “Always good to have new experiences.”

He smiled at her. “Right.” He had a feeling this team wasn’t really in want of varying adventures. “Well, don’t be strangers, ya hear?”

Gaby smiled and came forward, taking his hand. “It really was very nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he said, squeezing her hand in return.

“I’ll be back to get more dirt on this one,” she said tipping her head in Napoleon’s direction.

“I’ll be glad to give it,” he said, smiling at her. “Now get your fella here to take ya home before you’re dead on your feet.”

“I have already called the cab,” Illya said, coming up and laying Gaby’s coat across her shoulders.

“A good man.” He reached out a hand to Illya as well and the Russian took it, his hands larger even than Gavin’s own. He shook his head. “It was good to meet you,” he said. “Though I never thought I’d be saying that of a communist.”

“The world brings many unexpected things,” Illya said. “I am still learning that.” His gaze drifted over to Gaby who was saying goodbye to one of the waitresses.

“You take care of that one,” Gavin said. “I can see she doesn’t need it, but she deserves it all the same.”

“We will take care of each other,” Gaby said, sliding up beside Illya and slipping an arm around him. “Solo,” she called, leaning back to look around them. “Do you want to share a cab?”

Gavin looked to where his son had started sweeping the floors, separating himself from the good-byes.

“No, I…” He stood up straight and made a passing attempt at indifference. “I’ll just stay here, make sure the old man gets put to bed properly.” His team didn’t look fooled.

“Alright,” Gaby said, pulling her man toward the door. She gave a little wave over her shoulder.

“We have a briefing at 0900,” Illya called back and Napoleon nodded, turning back to his broom.

When the door closed on the couple, Gavin locked it behind them and walked toward his son.

“You kept your word,” he said, taking the broom from his hands. “You always do.”

“I hardly had anything to do with what happened here,” he said.

“Your team,” Gavin said.

“Inconvenient.”

“Good people,” Gavin corrected. “Who _care_ about you.”

“Let’s get you to bed, Old Man, before you start getting sentimental on me.”

“Nothing wrong with a little sentimentality, Lion.”

“Oh, and thanks again for _that_ by the way,” he said heading toward the upper access stairs. “You’ve got Gaby calling me that now.”

“Any way I can be of service son, any way I can be of service.”

❧

Gaby pulled off her coat and hung it up on the rack by the door then held her hands out for Illya’s. He looked at her uncertainly.

“Don’t you want to go to bed?”

“Of course,” she said. “You’re coming with me.”

He frowned slightly. “You want that?”

She rolled her eyes. “We’ve shared a bed before,” she said, “This isn’t any different.”

“This is actually _very_ different,” he said, his voice heavy with his meaning.

Gaby smiled and moved in close, sliding her hands up his chest and pushing his coat off his shoulders. “Do you have the energy to make it… _different_?” she asked, her voice husky and warm. At the sound of it, he thought he almost might.

After a moment, he shook his head. “No.”

“So then, give me your coat.”

Still he hesitated. He didn’t want to leave, not by any means, but he didn’t want to push things too far, too fast. He was still getting used to the idea that he could kiss her when he wanted.

“Illya,” she said softly. “I really want you here when I wake up tomorrow.”

He couldn’t say no to that, so he surrendered his coat and followed her into the bedroom.

She pulled out her pajamas and headed into the bathroom while he stripped down to his boxers and climbed into her bed. She came out a moment later in a soft flannel nightgown and climbed in beside him. Unlike every other time they had shared a bed, for a mission or out of necessity, she slid right up against him and he put his arm around her pulling her close. They laid down on her pillows, shifting into place so they were comfortable, close and could look at each other, one of her legs sliding between his.

Illya kissed her forehead, her temple, sighing as he relaxed into her soft mattress. She bit his chin and kissed it, her hands sliding round to his back, then she ducked her head into his chest. He felt her relax against him, felt sleep pulling at his consciousness.

“I love you.”

Her voice drifted up to him, soft and sleep and it took moment before his mind registered her words. When they did, sleep fled as his heart jumped in his chest.

“What?” he asked, breathless, but her only response was a soft snore.

“Gaby?” he asked, jostling her a little. She only settled more securely into him.

“Of course you are asleep,” he said, his head falling back on his pillow. His little insomniac chop shop girl _would_ fall asleep after dropping that bomb on him.

Did she mean it? Was it real or was it just the fog of sleep? Did she even realized she’d said it?

He sighed and then made himself stop speculating.

He would just have to trust.

“I love you too,” he said and closed his eyes, falling into sleep alongside her.

End

**Author's Note:**

> Gavin was created in the crazy hazy fever that is NaNoWriMo, and diadema expressed a love for him and it was she who gave me the idea of how he might fit into the canon verse and some other things she said that gave me the idea for this. Honestly, I am SUPER stressed about posting this without about a week more of agonizing over every last bit of it but I'm gonna let that go. I hope you guys will grant me grace in that!
> 
> Happy Birthday again Dia! I hope it is awesome.


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